


Sleeping Well With Bad Decisions

by starkraving



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Dom/sub, Dominance, Dubious Consent, F/M, Femdom, Forced Orgasm, Hurt/Comfort, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pegging, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Dynamics, Rough Sex, Sexual Coercion, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-30 03:10:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17215892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starkraving/pseuds/starkraving
Summary: Fjord might not be okay.





	Sleeping Well With Bad Decisions

**Author's Note:**

> note the content warnings. for more explicit summary of CW click to see notes at the bottom of the page.

Fjord tries to be quiet about it.

As he eases the cabin door open, a cut of light slides over the corner of his roommate’s cot, splitting the dark up the middle and opening a line of yellow across the top of Caduceus’ head and shoulders. The dim glow from the corridor only just lays the rucked bedsheets and tossed green armor into relief. Sheets and blankets knotted around Cad’s massive gray and pastel form. For a moment: quiet. Stillness. Fjord hovers in the doorway, one hand on the handle, his breath held while he stares at the back of a disheveled pink skull.

 _Maybe he’s a heavy sleeper,_ Fjord thinks. _Like Molly._

Then one long fuzzy ear kind of flips up and rotates toward him.

Fjord wasn’t previously aware embarrassment could hurt, but as that ear swivels around and the entire firbolg follows suit, Fjord feels mortification like a toothache rotting through him. Caduceus levers himself up on one elbow, lifts his head, and _stares_ at Fjord from beneath a salt-matted mane. The sea water is not doing much for Clay’s overall disposition to say nothing about the grooming that must go into being slightly furry all over. Mostly, he looks really, really grumpy. He squints into the light.

 _Fuck,_ Fjord thinks and closes the door behind his back.

Clay just eyes him.

Fjord briskly moves across the room, takes a seat on his bed, and starts pulling his boots off. Brusque, business like, very casual. He can feel Caduceus looking at him like you feel a spot of uncomfortable sunshine across the top of your skull. His face warms uncontrollably as he undresses a little. He can feel Cad watching him do that. Fjord waits a whole minute and half of fucking around with his covers and shit before he finally glances at Caduceus.

Cad still doesn’t say anything. He’s just disheveled and pink and kind of… resigned in the way a mossy rock might be resigned to shade. It’s like having a hill mad at you. Like the lawn is pissed.

Fjord, at a loss for what to do with that, waves a little at his firbolg roomie.

No dice.

“Sleep well with your bad decisions,” says Cad.

Then he just fucking rolls over, yanks his covers over the top of his head, and literally balls up like a long-limbed cat. He stays that way, one ear flapping irritably.

Fjord rather uncharitably thinks Molly would have given him a high-five or something. Which, you know, is the worst possible thing he could have thought because then he’s thinking about Mollymauk, thinking about Hupperdook and the circus. He’s thinking about the Summer’s Dance. A golden edge drinking down enough violence to equalize a circus performer’s death. He’s thinking about the cracking shriek Jester’s voice takes on when a man twice her size breaks her fingers and –

Caduceus is already asleep again.

His breathing comes deep and vaguely throaty. Makes it seem like there’s a cat in the room, purring slightly with every breath. Fjord thinks that for all his gentle disposition, there’s something always fey-edged in Caduceus. A breath of eerie the others aren’t picking up on because Clay wears it so easy and Fjord’s too self-aware to mention it. It’s a bit pot and kettle to call Caduceus weird at this point.

Fjord almost says something. He almost says, _“She asked about you in the middle of it.”_

But then Caduceus shivers in his sleep. The whole room smells like wet dog and sea water. Shit. Cad almost drowned again. _Again_. What takes Fjord then is a dull well of loneliness he hasn’t known since he was ten. He thinks, maybe, Avantika senses his aggression is misdirection. A sexual and social slight of hand to draw her gaze – _“Do you think your pink friend would like it rough as well? He’s got a size for it.”_ – from the other people in his crew.

Fjord gets up and checks the lock on the cabin door.

He pretends to sleep until the morning.

He’s not sure if Clay’s fooled by his pretending even when the cleric shakes him gently after sunrise, but he’s pretty sure he feels healing magic all of a sudden, welling under Cad’s palms. The peppermint burn is familiar as reflex now, unwinding a chemical relief in Fjord’s brain that stretches out like a plant unfurling inside his chest and melting into every inch of skin. It localizes into specific hot spots along his body – hunting down bruises and breaks in the skin to smooth away. Redacting a small history of violence written along his ribs and the inside of his thighs and… It’s almost enough to distract him from Caduceus, you know, using magic on him as a good morning.

Fjord snorts and looks sharply over his shoulder, thrashing slightly in his cot before remembering he’s trying to _not_ look out of sorts. Deuce towers amiably over him.

Looking at Caduceus is always, repeatedly, to Fjord at least, a bit of a shock. He’s fuckin enormous first of all which is always a little intimidating and the strange firbolg confluence of humanoid and animalistic facial structures, for some reason, unsettles Fjord more powerfully than the easy, bestial dedication of the dragonborn and tabaxi sailors he’s worked with in the past. Fjord’s still not 100% clear how Cad’s hair stays pink; something vague about ‘the natural coloration of a very hygienic lichen’.

“Hey,” he rumbles. “Morning. Up and at ‘em.”

“Yeah.” Fjord squints. “Got it. What’re you… whazzat for?”

“Hmm?”

Fjord rubs his face and gestures blearily. “Magic.”

“Oh.” Caduceus tilts his head thoughtfully, one long, soft ear quirking up. “Looked like you had a rough night.”

Fjord’s gut twists up like a towel getting wrung out, but Clay doesn’t seem to mean anything by it.

“Uh, thanks, Deuce. M’okay though.”

“Alright. See you up there.”

Cad gives his shoulder a kind of encouraging pat, then he lumbers to his feet and leaves. Fjord sits there in his bed, curled on his side, feeling the heat fade from his shoulders where the cleric touched him and continues to feel the impression of his giant, slightly fuzzy palm for far longer than is probably real. He breathes out slowly, breathes in slowly, wraps his arms around himself and says softly, “It’s fine.”

 

* * *

 

 

The landscape of Fjord’s nightmares manifests as two specific terrains: complete abstract dream-like fantasy and utter, hyper-detail recall. He doesn’t have a great memory for recollection in any other arena but things he’d like to forget. _Those_ things he recalls in eidetic detail. Fjord can detail the progression of a childhood humiliation down to a second-by-second replay and then amplified to a horrible, overwhelming repetition. When conscious, his best defense against it is, usually, going ‘ _nonononofuckthatno’_ in his head as loud as possible then doing something else until the memory leaves.

You can’t do that in a dream though.

He doesn’t want to dream because it will go like this:

He’s in Avantika’s cabin and he’s on his back staring one of the knots in the wood overhead. One of the wood planks in the ceiling has a dark spot whorled in it like a twist of nutmeg in a pale mug of tea. The imperfection in the fibers has a texture that vaguely sparks a compulsion to run his thumb along the natural spiral of it. He imagines what the rough groves might feel like under the pad of his fingers. But that’s little distraction when Avantika – having pulled off and tossed his tunic away – lays her hands on his hips like you brace yourself on desk and bends her head down to the valley between his legs.

Fjord sucks a breath.

His hips buck up a little, but she holds him down and goes on.

Her command to ‘hold very still’ glows hot in his head, heavy as a suggestion off an enchanted tongue. He deliriously and far too late wonders if maybe she _did_ use one of those. He doesn’t have much experience with charm magic; the closest he’s come having been Mollymauk’s failed coaxing one night in their room – like a slither of honey in his head before he shook it off. Right now, his skull seems stuffed with cotton, his entire body heating to the accelerating pace of his pulse. He can feel his back going tight as the sensation glows through every nerve in his body, mounting his spine one vertebrae at a time until he’s bowed off the bed and gripping the sheets at his hips for purchase.

He’s gasping shaky, whining a little each time she pushes pleasure into the base of his spine. She’s watching him with this strange, fixated starvation in her eyes. Her tawny curls are wild, touch-tangled, stuck to her forehead. She touches him and it’s like she’s touching herself. His stuttered moaning slides into her like she’s slid inside him, her fingers hot and expertly crooked into the aching interior of Fjord until he’s completely hard. He’s mindless in her touch, sweating, toes curling as he digs his heels into the frame of the bed

She’s fully clothed somehow. Fjord is stripped completely. He’s spread out beneath her, his feet braced against the bedframe where it holds the mattress. He’s pulled to the edge of the cot so he can feel every drag of her coat, belt, and breeches along his inner thighs and ass as she stands between his knees. The friction against his bare, aching cock sends a gut-punch pulse of arousal through his groin – so powerful it _hurts_.

“Can I trust you?”

She breathes his against his ear.

Fjord means to answers, but she draws her fingers out of him and the sudden hollowing seems to pull all his words out of him. He just moans and nods, jerking when she touches him at the base of his cock, feeling the shape of him where he’s laid against his own belly. She doesn’t take him into her hand though he’s out of his mind for her to do just that – to take him, touch him again because he’s _throbbing_ , aching hot all over.

“I don’t trust you, Fjord.”

She leans into him, her weight on top of him now.

Her shirt is cotton, her coat heavy against his chest, the fabric rough against skin. She rocks her hips forward, pulling her body against him until he’s half whimpering, half growling. She fits the L of her spread fingers to his chin. She grips him, gently guides his face up… then digs her thumb and middle finger into the hinge of his jaw until he obediently opens his mouth. She bucks her hips a little as reward. She smiles down at him, grinding slowly up along the stiff shape of his cock until Fjord makes a helpless, dizzy sound… and then she slides two fingers between his teeth.

She tastes like bitter oils and his own body. She presses blunt fingertips down his tongue to the back of his throat and says again, “Can I trust you?”

With her other hand she’s touching his chest, her thumb dragging back and forth across one nipple as she slides the fingers in his mouth back, then forward into his throat until she finds the edge of his gag reflex. She lets him choke just long enough that he bucks a little, panicked, before withdrawing gently. She soothes his lips with her fingers, with her mouth – almost apologetic, praising softly… then she pushes her fingers again between his teeth. She does that again and again, until the corners of his mouth are aching, are soaked with saliva as she thoroughly and almost lovingly finger-fucks his mouth until he’s pliant. He’s licking her hand. He kisses her fingers even as she uses them to force his mouth open, to touch his tongue, to choke him. He closes his mouth around her, sucks, biting gently until she bites him back, her teeth bruising skin along his throat.

“Can I trust you?” she asks again.

“Yes,” Fjord manages, breathless. “Yes, you can trust me.”

She grips the back of his neck, cradling his skull. Her fingers slide along the shaved part of his head into his hair and she pulls his head back, baring his throat so she can press her mouth to his trachea, drag her teeth there like she’s trying out the possibility of tearing his throat out. Fjord’s cock throbs so heavy then he can barely stand it, a pulse of pre-come running hot down the length of him as she drags her nails down his chest in four aching red lines. She leans up and presses her forehead to his. Her thumb drags across his lips and he shudders. She kisses him. Her tongue is salt and silky in his mouth.

“If you betray me,” she whispers. “I’ll kill you, Fjord.”

“I can’t stop you,” he breathes and she makes a noise in her throat.

“Say that again,” she says, her hand pushing between his legs.

“I can’t stop you,” Fjord says, choking because it might be true, because saying it makes his cock swell and that makes him panic a little. “You know I can’t stop you. I can’t—” she presses her fingertips against his asshole— “can’t stop you. You’re… you can do whatever you—ah!” She pushes inside him, penetrating, slowly, two fingers curling into him until she’s knuckle deep inside. Her other hand grips his jaw, forcing his face up so he’s breathing the words against her tongue: “You can do whatever you want to me.”

She pulls her fingers out of him and the frustration of it is so much Fjord almost sobs… before she shoves back into him with three fingers and spreads him out. She becomes brutal suddenly. Machine-like. She rocks her bunched fingers into him, pushing down the clenching, tight tract of muscle until Fjord is gasping in pain. He cries out with each thrust, so powerful his cock bounces heavy against his stomach, curling his knees up around her ribs but he _can’t_ stop her and she just keeps going and going until the pain dominates him and rolls over in his belly.

Gods, it starts to feel good.

He spreads his knees wider for her, grabs her jacket and pulls her down, begging, breathless, “Please, please, captain.” _It fucking hurts._ “Please, more. Please, don’t stop.”

She gives him want he wants with four fingers, so much he can barely take it but he does. Methodical as a surgeon, she explores him until Fjord is literally speechless. Reduced to stupid, mindless, whining and whimpering – barely begging.

She still hasn’t taken her clothes off.

“Roll over,” she says.

He whimpers when she takes her hand out of him, but he does it, turning onto his belly so his still throbbing arousal is pressed into the cot. His knees are braced against the bedframe, spread wide as she pushes his chest against the mattress, his arms curled up in the rucked sheets over his head. She leave him there a moment, aching and exposed, his inner thighs dripping sweat, oils and his own arousal. She’s getting something from a drawer near her bed, but he’s too fucked out and stimulated to see what she’s doing.

He feels cold suddenly, the air chilling his bare skin without contact until she fits her hand to the back of his right thigh.

“Say that you belong to me,” she says.

“I belong to you,” he pants, face pressed into the mattress.

“Only I can make you feel this good.”

“Please, you’re the only one. The only one…”

Avantika kisses the back of his neck and he shudders, his cock twitching at the touch. He writhes a little into the bed, the friction against his groin rough, almost painful but a cruel, primal impulse hisses at him to just keep doing it. To fuck himself raw into climax. It’s so wildly foreign, he stops immediately, a dull horror blooming cold in his gut. A razor splits the veil of his lust for a white, clarifying instant… before Avantika presses her hand into the nape of his neck and shoves his face into the mattress.

“Keep going,” she says.

“Wait--” he starts to say, a panic jolting though him. “I don’t… I don’t know—”

“I said keep going, Fjord.”

He has to obey.

Fjord bucks his hips forward, rutting, legs spread, against the bed. Pleasure takes hold of him like a hand around his cock and he moans into it. He’s never been so completely, agonizingly desperate before. Never been controlled and denied like this. It’s terrifying, but the terror makes him hard and the confusion means nothing in the face of how fucking _good_ it is.

(But even in that, he feels a lonely, cold, irrational part of him fantasizing the door will break down. Someone will rush in here and stop this. Beau and Caleb and the rest of them will pull him out of here like they pulled him from the Sour Nest except that won’t happen this time It won’t–)

He feels Avantika’s fingers sliding along his balls into the split of his ass again. He feels possessed. Out of his mind as she says, “Good boy,” and coaxes another low, animal noise of him. She slides inside him so easily now, his body wet and loosened for the passage of her fingers. Eager, even, to receive her as she again slides slick inside him, pressing deep until she nudges the deep knot of nerve inside to make his cock stiffen and the orgasm threaten. He’s throbbing all over. His pulse thrumming torturously in every part of his body. He can’t think straight.

“I can make you come,” Avantika murmurs. “Without even touching you.”

Fjord shivers and moans as she pushes, one finger crooked up, brushing but not pressing that aching depth inside.

“Please,” he says, “Can you go… can you go deeper?”

“You want me inside you?” He can feel her smiling. “You want to come?”

“Yes. Please make me—”

“Make you?” Her voice sharpens on the word. “ _Make_ you come?”

She pulls her fingers from his asshole and Fjord is left slumped, shivering with arousal against the bed, but he holds himself up. Even through the dizzy heat of it, instinct keeps him spread, ready for her. He can’t think. He’s just… trapped here, in this room, his hips rucking mindlessly into the bed beneath him, his cock leaking slick against his belly. He can’t remember being taken like this. He’s _never_ been taken like this and it feels so fucking good he wants to kill himself because it’s possible no one is ever going to hold him down, read the dark, aching inside of him and just _take_ the pleasure out of him like this. Until he’s twitching and helpless and begging. He didn’t realize he wanted to beg for it. Why the fuck would he want to—?

Avantika presses something suddenly against the slick ring of his asshole.

Something slick, smooth, and a little cold.

Before he can process that, she presses her hips forward and with no preamble impales him. It’s some kind of a long, curved shaft. Fabrication, not flesh. It enters him with an obscene ease, lubricant and his previous arousal easing the way before the pain and shock of penetration catches up. And then Fjord hears himself screaming. Then he’s choking. He claws the bed, but Avantika grips the back of his neck and pins him, saying, “Hush. I’ve got you.”

She slows down, stokes his flank with her free hand, like you calm a nervous stallion.

“So easy, love. You take it so easy. You’re a natural.”

Fjord’s cock pulses hot, his insides clenching, but the relentless slide of the implement is filling and stretching him with such agonizing slowness he feels all the fight go out of him. He slumps nerveless against the bed. Hurts. It hurts. Pain glowing through his guts. He lays still. Obedient. Jerking occasionally as Avantika jostles him a little. He’s breathing slow and deep. There is something sheathed securely, irrevocably inside him and Avantika is saying, against his skin, “I knew you’d like this.” She kisses the shell of his ear, strokes his hip, and drags her nails along his thigh until he moans brokenly against the bed. “From the moment I laid eyes on you, I knew.”

“Hurts,” Fjord grits. “Avantika…”

“Just for a second,” she promises, reaching between them. “Trust me.”

“S-stop. Wait.” Fear. Fuck, fuck. He can’t. “Avantika, w—!”

The thing inside him slides a little further in. She presses it up, so much deeper than her fingers could hit him, and finds something new. Fjord chokes. She does it again. Fjord starts to yell so loudly Avantika clamps a hand over his mouth to muffle him – “They will think I’m killing you. Calm down.” – but then he can’t speak anymore. The pleasure pulses through him, tightening his entirely body and Fjord moans, soft this time, breathless. Avantika grips his shoulder to hold him.

“Relax.”

Fjord jerks, growling, pain lancing though his whole fucking body.

“ _Relax_ ,” she says, the word slides like honey into his head and he… he lets it. Lets her command take root in his body and unwind the tension, make him slack and pliant under her. Her fingers comb through is hair, pushing it off his skin. “Much better, yes?”

Then she starts to _fuck_ him.

It still hurts, but it doesn’t hurt as much as it pleasures.

Fjord lets the pain have him, lets it live in his belly to make room for the glorious, slavish heat his captain is pushing inside him. He lets her ruin him. He grips the sheets as she drives the length of it over and over into his body, hitting that white-noise core of him where static bursts as pure, agonizing pleasure through every fucking nerve. Until the orgasm is boiling in his belly, in his balls. Fjord loses it. His cock spasms, pressed between him and the bed and he comes and comes and comes until he’s numb, shuddering, and wanton. Then he’s left limp in Avantika’s bed, wetness soaking his hips. He’s aware, vaguely, of her kissing his shoulder, stroking the sweaty hair from his forehead.

“See?” She slides a hand around the outside of his thigh, hooking one hand inside his knee. “How good it can be, if you just… follow orders?”

She pulls his leg, spreading him out and pulling him onto his back. She doesn’t take the toy out of him, leaving it sheathed so deep inside him, Fjord can’t move lest it dig up into his prostate, coaxing another slow pulse of seed from his cock. He moans. Helpless. She spreads his knees. He’s spent. He’s soft, but when she touches him, his cock still twitches. Deliriously, he tries to push he away. She takes his wrists and pushes them into the mattress over his head. She climbs on top of him, between his knees.

“You liked that?” she says.

Fjord nods, not trusting his voice.

“I enjoyed that,” she says, her mouth against his neck. “I enjoy you. You and your little crew. They’re all so interesting aren’t they?” She smiles against his skin. “Do you think your pink friend would like it rough as well?” Fjord’s eyes snap wide, his heart lunging into his throat. “He’s got a size for it. Or the other one? The pretty one.” She kisses him, but with her lips against his, she says, “Beauregard?”

Fjord grabs Avantika. He seizes her by the biceps, digs his fingers into her arm and yanks her up.

“ _No_.” The word is a snarl, a thunder in his chest. “I’m the only one. Just me.”

The warlock woman is smiling down at him. He doesn’t know if he pulled that off, if he hit the possessiveness, the low jealousy right. He doesn’t know if she knows he’s sick with fear as he pulls her down on top of him again.

“You can do what you want with _me_.”

And then, of course, she does.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s four hours since The Plank King snapped Avantika’s neck that Caleb finds him.

“Hey there, Fjord.” He’s kind of hunched in the door way, his fey fucking wizard cat coiling around his boots. Caleb keeps up with his hygiene these days, but his default is still somewhat scruffy looking dude in an oversized jacket. He’s got the lower half of his face almost hidden behind the collar of his jacket. He’s not looking Fjord directly in the eye, as usual. “That was quite, ah, quite a lot back there.”

Fjord, who is digging through a crate of very limited rations, counting and organizing them with a sailor’s professional cool, just says, “Sure fuckin’ was.”

Caleb moves into the hold, glancing over his shoulder to the entry ways. Fjord ignores him for a while, just keeps counting until Caleb is standing almost directly across from him on the other side of the crate. There are not a lot of rations. Not enough for the whole crew to get to the next port. Caduceus insisted it was fine. That he and Jester had spells to keep everyone fed, but the hollow memory of long-sea starvation compels him to do the ration count anyway. They don’t have enough food. It’s fine. Cad said it was fine. _Jester_ said it was fine and if Jester said it was fine…

“ _Fjord_ ,” Caleb says, like its not the first time.

“Hmm? Sorry, Caleb. Distracted here.”

“Fjord, it’s over. We’re safe.”

“Well, that’s how you jinx a thing,” Fjord says, attempting a grin.

Caleb’s face is, you know, weird and unreadable. Fjord drops the grin.

“I’ll be fine. Just… a little shaky is all. I’m good. Just keeping busy. There’s still lots to do.”

Caleb eyes him. “I know it wasn’t easy for you. Any of this. I know… I know what that can be like. Surviving isn’t always a fight. Ja?”

Fjord meets the wizard’s eyes then – pale and blue and still fuckin’ unreadable. But he gets a sense of… knowing there. Fjord looks away when he sees it and goes back to counting. Caleb doesn’t try to talk to him again and Fjord hears him leave the way he came… but he feels the fuzzy push of Frumpkin purring and rubbing his stripy face against the side of his leg. Fjord gives it a minute. Then he kneels down, picks Frumpkin up, and hugs the stupid purring not-a-real-damn-cat for a minute. Buries his face in his fur.

She’s dead. She’s dead and he killed her.

 _Can I trust you?_ she says in his head. Her fingers push his mouth open and his jaw aches with memory. _Can I trust you?_

“ _Nononononofuckthatno_ ,” Fjord whispers.

He goes back to counting the rations.

 

**Author's Note:**

> CW: this story features, basically, Fjord having what we can gather to be the roughest sex he's ever had with Avantika topping and dominating him through the experience - fingering, pegging, implied oral, scratching. Triggering content includes Avantika ignoring signs of discomfort and eventually a verbal 'stop' from Fjord. Being penetrated without warning. Being held down against your will. General coercion throughout. Fear during sex. 
> 
> Notes: I'm just saying we breezed right past that giant ball of potential trauma and I'm like REALLY WORRIED its gonna come back outta nowhere and nail us in the head. Is Fjord fucking OKAY? Maybe getting lots of power sounds really good after not having ANY at the hands of an enemy for a while. I'm WORRIED. As always: comments and feedback are greatly appreciated!


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